Stones crumble like ash, banners loose like smoke,
The black rain assails upon the hearth that’s broke.
Dregs of yester wine, candles fighting for breath,
Shields brittle, swords blunt, horses twisted by death.
Our heroes fall or defect, the bards try to elevate,
As the night watch reports of a shadowy trebuchet.
How small our towers look, how lowly our ramparts…
But hold out! The King will return with His vanguard.
A lament for fallen brothers
~Poet of Ephraim
Poet of Ephraim 